A SECOND CHANCE ROMANCE BOXED SET

by Lewis, Laurie

  “No way. I’m in your debt.”

  He held it there until she finally took the ten spot and slid it into her pocket. “Thanks. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  “Actually, there is something you might be able to help me with.”

  Chapter 5

  The next day appeared warmer than it was, a tease of summer delivered in a cool, cloudless sky. Try as he did to prepare himself this time, Noah couldn’t resist the tug on his emotions as he once again pulled into the long driveway beside the Anderson’s Nursery sign. He cut the engine, removed his helmet, and sat on his bike, staring up the lane at the rambling, white frame house with its green roof and shutters. Apprehension. Comfort. Regret. He absorbed all the feelings, allowing the coldness and the warmth to intermingle, settling into a bearable mix.

  The setting, with perfectly manicured gardens, buildings, and fields, looked much the same as he recalled. To the right of the house sat the family farm—a small cattle barn, a henhouse and pen, a large vegetable garden, and two acres showing the first blades of a summer sweet corn crop. To the left of the long driveway sat Anderson’s Nursery, complete with four greenhouses where bedding plants grew, and ten acres of deciduous trees and evergreens planted in perfect rows. The entire spread was set against acres of hilly woods that crawled toward the headwaters of the Potomac River. It remained a country paradise, seemingly untouched by D.C.’s urban sprawl.

  A sweep of melancholy sent Noah second-guessing himself. He pushed through the apprehension and parked the bike. From within his jacket, his retrieved Jeannie’s offering—the envelope and stationery bearing the Saber and Roses letterhead. He reread the letter, sealed it in the envelope, and attached it to the Nursery sign using tape Jeannie had also supplied. As he returned to his bike, his worst fear came true. The Anderson’s Nursery truck pulled up.

  He immediately recognized the driver who studied him from the truck’s cab. Aunt Sarah looked much the same except for her absent smile and the worry lines marring eyes that held little of the joyful luster he remembered. He couldn’t read her expression, whether his arrival was welcome or not. He managed to remain composed as she parked and wound the window down, but he felt like the last kid on the field when teams were being chosen.

  “Noah?”

  He nodded, noting that she seemed as tentative as he. “It’s been a while, Aunt Sarah.”

  Whatever she heard in his voice seemed to relax her. Sarah exited the truck and came into full view. “I hardly recognized you.” She stepped closer and studied his face intently. “I just can’t get over how you’ve filled out and grown up. You’re a very handsome man, Noah.”

  Her approval eased Noah’s nervousness until her arms opened to welcome him into her embrace. He instinctively backed away a step, which served as a trigger of sorts. Sarah halted, and dropped her arms awkwardly to her sides.

  “I’m sorry. I forgot that you don’t like . . . I’m sorry.”

  The warm flush of discomfiture returned. “I came to speak to Uncle John.”

  “We . . . we didn’t know you were coming.”

  Noah stiffened again. “He came looking for me.”

  “I know he did. He’s actually been looking for you for years.” She paled and twisted her hands into a knot. “Whatever happened between you . . .” She sighed aloud while her gaze drifted to the house where Noah presumed Uncle John was. When she returned her attention to Noah, a new sense of urgency filled her eyes and voice. “Whatever happened between you . . . John has suffered over it. If you’ve needed to know that, then there it is.”

  Yes . . . there it is. Noah felt the distance between them increase. “Uncle John wanted answers. I need some from him as well. Is he home?”

  Sarah’s eyes began to shine as she drew nearer, pleading her case. “He’s sick, Noah, and very weak. I know you blame him for whatever happened that night. He blames himself. Please understand that he’s already paid dearly for those mistakes over these past ten years.”

  “Is that why he came looking for me? So he could tell me that?”

  “Would knowing that be enough to give you your peace? Your answers?”

  Noah pressed his lips together and shook his head. “I’m not here to hurt him. I’ve built a new life. For the most part, I’m content, but I can’t move on until Uncle John and I resolve a few things. Apparently, neither can he. I think we both feel we need to meet.”

  Sarah didn’t respond immediately. “I care about you, but please don’t cause John more hurt than he’s already inflicted upon himself.”

  As much as Noah wanted his own resolution, he couldn’t ignore the petition from a woman who had only shown him kindness. He replaced his helmet and mounted the bike. “I’ll be at the park for thirty minutes. If Uncle John doesn’t show, I’ll go away. But if he doesn’t come now, tell him not to come looking for me ever again. I deserve to have my peace as well.”

  Sarah remained where she was, only her eyes moving, between Noah and the house, as if they were two arms of a scale, and she, the fulcrum. Noah felt her agony.

  “You know, you could just not mention that I was here. Uncle John would never know.”

  “I would know. And John would never have his peace.”

  Noah nodded and revved the engine, causing a roar that ripped the quiet. “Then do what you think is right.” And then he drove away.

  The sunlight kissed every inch of Veteran’s Park, which sat a mile down the road from the Anderson’s farm in the center of the tiny village of Adamstown. The large protruding rocks, so characteristic of the region, had been put to good use in the park’s landscaping, and Noah decided to take full advantage of a flat, sun-warmed rock while he waited for the uncle he did not expect to show.

  He sat down, pulled the elastic from his hair, and ran a comb through the tangles. When he laid back, the stone’s heat baked his back but the air still chilled his front. He drew his leather jacket over him like a blanket, set the timer on his cell phone for thirty minutes, and settled in to keep his word.

  He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out his two lucky charms, passing them from hand to hand. Would Sarah even tell his uncle he was here? Noah wasn’t sure. Expectations of closure had drawn him north from his ten years of self-imposed isolation. A day’s ride up, a day’s ride back, with a day of reconciliation or agony sandwiched between. If she didn’t tell him, the trip would end up being a draw. No winners. No losers. More numbness and seclusion.

  After a time, he peered past the glint on his phone. “Five more minutes,” he said aloud, surprised by how disappointed the announcement made him. Then, off to his left he heard an engine—a truck he presumed—and then the sound of a door slamming. He turned to check, but before he could identify the figure through the glare, an altered version of a familiar voice called out to him.

  “Hello, Noah.”

  Uncle John’s voice penetrated Noah to his very core. His heart raced and his limbs weakened, requiring the fit and muscled Noah to labor to rise up onto one elbow. When he finally did, he lifted his sunglasses, trying to reconcile the man before him with the Uncle John of his memory. The muscled frame of Noah’s mighty childhood hero was now narrow and frail. Uncle John’s hair had thinned, more salt now than pepper, and his cornflower blue eyes peered from beneath a furrowed sash of heavy gray brows.

  Noah peered at John’s arms—mere fractions of the mighty limbs that had once heaved trees into a truck bed. Uncle John’s granite days were gone, leaving behind a fragile mortal who seemed wearied by the short walk.

  “I guess you got my messages,” Uncle John said, as he reached him. “I was afraid I’d never find you.”

  Noah awakened from his daze and pulled himself to a sit.

  “Mind if we sit over here?” Uncle John pointed to a wooden bench.

  Without a word, Noah tucked his two charms into his pockets, stuffed his hair behind his ears, and followed along. John eased on to one side of the bench and Noah took the other.

/>   “I’ve been trying to find you for some time. I really appreciate you coming.”

  “We left things pretty raw as I recall.”

  “I’m afraid we did, and trust me, no matter what you have to say to me, it can’t be worse than what I’ve said to myself.”

  Noah considered that possibility. Memories of their last confrontation returned with agonizing clarity. The accident that embedded the Anderson’s Nursery truck into a historic church, Noah’s desperate but unanswered call for Uncle John’s help, the harrowing night in jail, the worry over his missing passenger, followed by the compassionless hammering he received the next morning when his uncle saw the honored Anderson name plastered across the morning paper. When Uncle John had finally arrived to pick Noah up, it was more to quell local gossip than out of mercy. Noah never said a word during the berating he got. He just shut down. And then he jumped in his clunker and disappeared.

  For ten years.

  The air was thick with unease. Uncle John pointed to Noah’s hair. “You look good. I like your hair like that.”

  Confused, Noah squinted at his uncle. “Long?”

  “No . . . I mean, that’s okay, it’s just not what I meant. I like the color. . . . all . . . natural.”

  Noah puzzled over the comment for several moments. “Oh . . .” he laughed modestly. “I forgot my hair was bleached back then. Turned out red.”

  “Pink.”

  They shared a nervous laugh.

  “It’s been a long time,” Uncle John said, once the ice was broken. “Tell me about yourself. What are you doing for work now?”

  “Construction mostly. I work on a finishing crew.”

  “A finishing crew?” The words sailed on a wave of respect. Uncle John nodded approvingly. “That’s very good.”

  Noah sat taller, straighter, surprised by how much his uncle’s praise still meant to him. In a rare moment of candor, Noah shared his dream of becoming a fine furniture maker, perhaps even opening his own shop someday.

  “So you live in Myrtle Beach now, eh? Where exactly?”

  His uncle clearly didn’t fully understand that the number he had was also for Noah’s home. Noah cleared his throat. “I do repair work at night at a Laundromat—in return for a free room.”

  His uncle paused and then nodded. “Well, that’s a good way to save money, I suppose.”

  Noah watched for any sign of judgment, but his uncle sounded sincere. When it seemed safe, he added, “That’s what I figure. I don’t need much space. Plus the owner lets me run a little side business out of the back.”

  “Side business, eh? Beyond fixing the washers?”

  Noah pulled a business card from his wallet and handed it to his uncle. It read:

  Hand-carved Driftwood Photo Frames

  Noah Carter

  (281-234-5678)

  Preserve your Myrtle Beach memories

  “You do this?” His uncle’s eyes widened. “How’s your business doing?”

  “I do okay. I’m saving my money.”

  “That’s good. For what? A car? A house?”

  Noah bristled at the interrogation. “Just saving it.”

  The awkwardness began again as each man searched for a new topic.

  “So . . . do you have anyone special in your life?”

  It was the most sensitive topic his uncle could possibly have raised. Painfully raw images of the night of the accident flashed across Noah’s mind. “I’m about talked out, aren’t you?”

  His uncle appeared wounded. “I’m . . . sorry. I’m not trying to pry. But there’s so much I wanted to say to you, Noah. I’m not good with words. I know I let you down ten years ago, and I’d like to make it up to you if you’ll allow me.”

  Uncle John may have been his childhood hero, but more and more Noah was remembering how his teen years had ruined that illusion. “Let it go, Uncle John. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

  “Of course it matters.” Uncle John shook the card at Noah. “This proves there’s a future for you back on the farm.”

  “A future for me on the farm?” Noah’s suspicions sprang to life, his defenses on full alert. “What about what I’ve built in South Carolina? Doesn’t it pass the John Anderson smell test? I didn’t go to college and score a medical or law degree like your sons, so I guess I still look like a slacker to you. No home, no family. A statistical zero.”

  Uncle John leaned back in surprise. “That’s not what I meant at all, Noah. And that’s not what I meant to imply the night you left, either. I just want you to be happy. I’d like to help make that happen.”

  “And what makes you think I’m not happy already?”

  “I didn’t mean to imply . . . It just came out wrong. Maybe you’re not ready to work things out. Perhaps coming was a mistake.”

  His uncle’s hand moved to the armrest as if he were about to rise. The moment brought Noah both relief and sorrow. He leaned forward, resting his head in his hands. It had looked like things might resolve peacefully—that there might have been real reconciliation. But he’d lost his temper. This wasn’t what he’d driven north for. “Uncle John . . . wait.”

  Silence passed as Noah sorted through a thousand prickly thoughts and feelings. His uncle had swallowed his pride to find him. He could do the same to build understanding between them. “I’m sorry. I need to explain why I got so angry—and why I left that night. You remember my club foot?”

  Uncle John nodded slowly. “I’m so sorry, Noah.”

  He brushed the apology away. “I’m just bringing it up because it’s relevant to why . . . to why I couldn’t be here anymore after that night.”

  John waited patiently.

  “I think my being born with clubfoot disorder was harder on my parents than on me. Straightening my legs became Mom’s mission, so she strapped me into my braces like a marionette until I was seven—so I could become the son Duey wanted.”

  Noah took a breath. “My legs straightened, but to good old Duey I would always be a cripple and a disappointment. I was so afraid of disappointing him even further that I shoplifted a little CD player so I wouldn’t have to tell him someone stole mine. I got caught, and Duey told the police to keep me in jail.” Just the mention of that night caused him to shiver. “Things . . . happened to me in jail. My father ceased to be anything but Duey Carter to me that night.” He looked over at his uncle who was studying him, measuring every word.

  Uncle John took a deep breath, nodding. The words were quiet, but the burden of the realization was obvious. “That’s what I did to you.”

  Recalling the dreaded memories set every nerve in Noah’s body on fire. Needing to move, he stood up and faced Uncle John. “I’d learned not to expect much from Duey, but . . . from you. . .”

  Uncle John closed his eyes, appearing to shrivel, as if Noah’s comment had sucked the remaining strength from his body.

  “So you can understand why that night was more than I could handle.”

  “I don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry. I had no idea you’d been through that . . . I . . .”

  Noah stared into the sun until his eyes burned. He closed them and quietly added, “I know my mother shoved me on you to separate Duey and me, and that’s how I felt that summer—like a pebble in your shoe, an irritation you were anxious to be rid of. But that night was worse. I felt you hated me. You never even asked what happened. You just assumed.”

  “Oh, Noah . . . I—I never hated you. I just didn’t understand you. Before the accident, you challenged me in ways no one ever had. You questioned your assignments, and . . .” Uncle John groaned and shook his gray head. “It sounds so petty now, but . . . you seemed lazy. I’d never faced that with my own kids, and instead of working with you, I fought you. It just all built up and then . . .”

  He sighed long and low. “Noah. I’ve been a tough old cuss all my life, long on criticism and short on praise. My kids ignored my grousing because they knew I loved them.” His voice became graveled. “Being tough on a kid can
be good for them. It can keep them straight and make them strong, but being tough is just bullying if kids don’t feel loved. That’s the mistake I made with you. When you got older and your mom sent you, you were so darn headstrong and unmotivated that I forgot all about your childhood. I labeled you a slacker and rode you hard every day. I never made you feel welcomed or loved. There’s no excusing what I did, but I am sorry, Noah. More than anything, I wish I’d tried to talk to you.”

  Noah’s mouth tightened into an iron line. His uncle’s apology, however sincere, was diluted by the revelation that he had all but forgotten the crippled little boy who had so admired him, and the abusive home life that had made him rebellious. It felt like a sucker punch to Noah’s gut. “Well, I appreciate that, but it doesn’t matter now. It’s too late.”

  Uncle John’s face contorted as he considered Noah’s indictment. When he spoke, his words came out as a hoarse whisper. “Too late for what, Noah?”

  Noah took a breath. It really was too late to get back who and what he’d lost that night. “It doesn’t matter anymore. Let’s just part in peace. I think we understand each other now.” He shifted his feet, readying to leave.

  “No, Noah. Please, listen to me. Whatever you think of me, I’m more certain than ever that you were meant to come home to the farm. You know I’m not one to accept or even ask for help, Noah, so it should mean something when I admit that Sarah and I need help. We need you. Maybe it’s no coincidence that you chose now to come.”

  Noah stared, shaking his head. “Uncle John, you’ve got the wrong guy. I’m sure your kids or employees can handle whatever you need help with.”

  “Not with this.” Uncle John stared into the afternoon, obviously considering whether he should say his next words. “I’m sick, Noah.”

  Noah stepped back, appraising his uncle. “How sick?”